


Birds of Passage

by quartzapple



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Force-Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Post-Avengers Asgard, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzapple/pseuds/quartzapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Avengers. Loki is imprisoned without hope of release, but a single ray of hope remains in his existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**oO..Oo..oO..Oo**

**_I can feel your sorrow_ **

**_You won't forgive me_ **

**_But I know you'll be all right_ **

**_It tears me apart that you will never know_ **

**_But I have to let go_ **

**oO..Oo..oO..Oo**

  
  


Loki sighed and rolled over.

The cell was neither dark nor damp. It wasn't particularly uncomfortable, at least not by dungeon standards, but it wasn't precisely _comfortable_ either. A bed was pushed against the far wall, secured in place with heavy bands of dull, grey metal over the otherwise pleasantly warm brown of the wooden frame. No blankets were permitted; supposedly strips of blanket could be used to form a noose or a garotte. A writing desk and chair had been offered as a reward for good behaviour after the first three months, but a small disagreement with one of the guards had seen them quickly removed. It didn't matter. He had no use for it, anyway.

What he really missed were his books. Naturally, these had been denied without consideration; books on magic of any kind were out of the question, but volumes on the history of Asgard and botany and customs of the denizens of other realms and even children's stories had also been forbidden. Books were considered too dangerous, even though he could not have woven a spell had he had the necessary books – the heavy, deceptively ornate cuffs around his wrists prevented even the smallest stream of magic flowing into or from his body. They did not match the gag placed on him months ago, which irrationally irritated him. The knowledge that he was locked in a dungeon in the same palace as both the great library, with its uncountable ancient tomes on every subject imaginable, and even some totally unimaginable, was incredibly frustrating.

As a result, Loki was intensely bored.

At first, he had schemed. There had to be some way to entice a guard into allowing him just a moment to glimpse the golden sunlight reflected off the turrets of the palace, or to set his eyes upon the orchard of apple trees he had enchanted as a small child to bear fruit in the winter, or to see the shimmer of the river just one more time before his indefinite imprisonment truly commenced. Of course, every request had been denied. Only the most cold-blooded of guards were allowed to interact with him. They delivered meals and removed the gag to allow him to eat. They would not speak to him and showed no indication that they heard him when he spoke, so he gave up on attempting to speak to them rather quickly.

The second plan had been to implore a visitor to help him to escape. Perhaps begging Frigga, _Mother dearest_ , to beg Odin to allow the cuffs to be removed just once, just enough to restore that instinctive glamour-

Loki internally shuddered and kept his eyes pressed shut. The thought of escape was enough to remind himself exactly why it would not be possible; the hideous blue skin and demonic red eyes he had been cursed with made remaining inconspicuous anywhere outside of Jotunheim impossible, and even there his frail stature still rendered hiding nigh on impossible.

A peek, just a tiny glimpse, out of sick curiosity down at his body was enough to make his stomach turn.

_Monster._

Shut in a cell with no one but himself for company, it was hard not to constantly notice his own failures and imperfections. The rough clothes he had been left with, thankfully his own, did little to conceal his body from his own eyes. The hours when the cell was lit by a sconce out of reach opposite the bars were spent with self-inflicted blindness, eyes fixed shut so that he didn't have to see. When he couldn't see, he could pretend that nothing had ever happened and that he was lying on his bed in his own chambers, without bars on the door and omnipresent guards lurking outside. With an internal grimace, Loki realised he couldn't remember what his own bed felt like.

When he tried, he could pretend that he could wake up in the mornings at his leisure, without being awakened by guards dragging the metal of their weapons across the bars, the implicit threat permeating his sleeping mind. He could pretend that he could wander between rooms, explore the grounds he had memorised before he could walk, or spend all day in the library flanked with stacks of books half his height. He could pretend his hands and tongue were not constrained with enchanted metal so he could construct the most complex of spells at will. He could pretend that stupid, bumbling oaf would throw a drunken arm around his shoulders and slop mead down his front, laughing about something that happened on a hunt that afternoon, pulling their bodies together a little too close for comfort-

That final fantasy was the hardest to imagine. Thor had not visited him once.

Regardless, Loki told himself that he did not miss Thor. He did not miss anyone, because he didn't need them. He didn't need a single other person in the entire universe.

Thor was probably off having silly little adventures with his Midgardian friends. They were no doubt battling whatever mortal criminals with creative, dramatic flairs which set them above regular criminals, enough to warrant intervention by a _god_. Loki's lip curled. Playing heroes with Fury's troupe of freaks was clearly more important to Thor than visiting his imprisoned brother.

Bitterness wrestled with shame in Loki's stomach. Those puny, fragile humans had defeated him, after all. They were the reason he was locked away with no hope of release, and it was humiliating. It proved everything that had ever been whispered about him as child. He would never be a good leader, never amount to anything, and never be more than a liar. Even with an army at his disposal, he had failed. Over and over in his head, he had analysed his every tactic and strategy, unwillingly picking them to pieces to realise that he was defeated because of his own weaknesses and he relived being smashed into concrete by that hideous creature in his dreams.

It was no wonder Thor would want nothing to do with him, and Loki absolutely did not want to be seen by Thor in his present condition. He had no desire to be seen for what he was – a weak, feeble, blue-skinned monster, liar and failure. Self-loathing buried a little deeper into his chest, pulling and prying at the spaces between his ribs in a phantom pain that felt a little too real. He balled his hands into fists, delicate fingers pushing nails into soft flesh.

And he had his own woman now.

No, Thor had not once visited, and he probably never would, but Loki couldn't help but hope. The sheer loneliness was terrifying, though he would never admit to being actually scared.

A set of sharp, harsh footsteps echoing along the stone hall outside announced an approaching guard. During the first few months of his imprisonment he had sat up and glared as they entered, but now he remained curled up on the bed. It didn't matter if they saw him in such a weak, submissive position. It was fitting.

The cell door swung open. Despite is closed eyes, he could tell the light changed in the room as the bulk of the guard momentarily obscured the light coming from the hall. The thundering footsteps grew louder as the guard drew closer, the door clanging shut behind him. They did not bother to lock the cell door any more. They could see what Loki had become – always was. Rough hands gripped his shoulders and turned him forcefully to access the lock at the back of the gag, before yanking it off, the metal striking sharply against teeth as it came away. When he did not open his eyes, a sharp strike collided with his cheek. A low gasp caught in his throat. That had never happened before.

A bubble of irrational, stupid petulance bloomed in his chest, hot and frothing against the usual cold apathy that permeated his mind. Ignoring the pain, he kept his eyes closed. It was bizarre and sudden but the impulsiveness was almost addictive.

Another slap, and Loki felt the inside of his cheek cut open against his teeth. When he still refused to open his eyes, the open palm changed to a fist. He could taste blood. A cocktail of adrenaline and pain flowed through his veins, mixing together and twisting through his whole body. Yes, this was good. It hurt and that was _good_. It was physical contact with another living being, combined with punishment for everything, it was well-deserved-

The guard growled something unintelligible, nearly prompting Loki to open his eyes. A guard, another person, had _spoken to him_ for the first time. Pride glowed in his chest at his first successful manipulation for the first time in months, maybe _years_ , it had been _so long_ -

A meaty fist gripped the front of his shirt and shook him roughly, making his head throb at the sudden movement. He could hear the delicate stitching strain and complain before tearing, exposing his chest to the air. Quickly, his hands shot to his chest to blindly pull the fabric closed to hide his skin, futilely trying to cover up the physical evidence of his grotesqueness. Another pair of hands gripped his wrists, tight enough to make his bones creak, dragging them away and pinning his hands above his head. Still he refused to open his eyes. The full weight of the guard pressed down onto is body and for the first time, fear flashed through his mind.

Time seemed to race forward, stopping and starting again in jarring motions. One moment he was pinned to the bed as two fingers were shoved roughly between lips parted in a shuddering inhale, and the next his nose was making a hideous cracking noise as a fist beat down from above in retaliation for biting down. A smirk played at the corner of his bleeding mouth. He could still get the reactions he wanted if he tried. The smirk garnered an angry growl and a hand clasped around his throat. Panic shot through his veins and he kicked out, sending something – the plate of food, in all likelihood – clattering to the floor. The more he struggled, the harder the guard pressed until he was rendered almost immobile from lack of air and the guard's weight.

It was unclear whether he lost consciousness or his mind refused to remember it, but the next thing he was aware of was his loose trousers being dragged down his thighs, and the panic increased fifty-fold. He tried to struggle, but the guard merely laughed and punched him in the head again. Dazed, he contemplated what was about to happen. It was fairly clear there was no way to fight, and there was no point – what would he gain by further angering this guard? More bruises and probably some broken bones? And what else was his useless, weak body good for?

A voice at the back of his head urged him to keep his eyes shut.

The guard finally ripped the trousers from him completely and pushed apart his thighs. He wasted no time in spitting on his free hand and shoving two rough fingers inside Loki's shaking body. Nothing but the barest whimper escaped his lips, despite the ache and discomfort of the intrusion. Though he tried to move his legs to kick out or his hips to move away, his body seemed to refuse to respond. The foreign fingers pumped roughly three times before withdrawing sharply.

Though he braced himself, Loki was not prepared for the pain. The ripping, aching burn as the guard shoved his cock inside him finally drew a scream from his lips, voice hoarse from lack of use.

“Heh, looks like you didn't forget how to speak after all, Liesmith,” a rough voice taunted from above him. He flinched at the name. _Liesmith_. Was that what they were calling him in Asgard these days? It wasn't untrue.

The solid, heavy presence inside his body as the guard remained still for a second throbbed, hot breath stinging Loki's perpetually cool skin. He was aware of every millimetre of intrusive flesh and every square inch of hot hands pinning him down. Someone had to have heard the clatter of the falling dish or his scream.

After what felt like an eternity, the guard drew back. He nearly breathed a sigh of relief, only for it to be forced out as a sob as the guard slammed in, their hips connecting with a sick slap. Moisture welled in his eyes, but he refused to let it fall. This brutal routine happened over and over again, with each thrust drawing louder and louder sobs from between cold, blue lips. He wondered if it would ever end, or if at the very least it would stop hurting so much. It wasn't the kind of pain he wanted any more, it was just pain.

He couldn't help but think of what Thor would think if he saw him right now. Pathetic. Useless. Weak. Perverted. A bead of warmth ran down his face.

The guard stilled, then withdrew. Two fingers prodded inside him again, but with little resistance. They swept across his lips for dipping inside, forcibly coating his tongue in salty, coppery fluid, before pulling back out. Before he had the chance to retch, the gag was forced back on and secured quickly and his trousers were shoved back into place.

The cell door clanged shut, and Loki was left alone again.

 

**oO..Oo..oO..Oo**


	2. Rain

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

_As my memory rests_

_But never forgets what I lost_

_Wake me up when September ends_

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

  
  


It didn't stop. After the first night – day, night, Loki couldn't tell any more – he was left alone for a good number of days. The routine resumed as normal. The only change was the marked difference in the behaviour of the guards; they handled him more roughly, as though touching him somehow tainted them. A part of him couldn't blame them. He felt dirty, and had not been allowed water to wash himself. It was likely deliberate. Even if he washed his body, his clothes were stained and he didn't think he would ever be able to remove the bitter taste of blood and semen from his mouth. 

A strange sense of numbness had descended over his mind. Every thought only half-registered in his head in the same way everything appeared through his half-closed eyes; dim, faded, and unclear until they suddenly _weren't_. He couldn't decide if it was better or worse when things suddenly became bright and sharp and vivid. The transition between was jarring and nausea-inducing. 

The disconnect was liberating in some ways. It was almost like his body truly wasn't his, so nothing had really happened to him at all. In fact, nothing had to happen at all. He wouldn't have to eat or sleep again. Things like that wouldn't be necessary. If he could survive without speaking, something that was so vital to everything he did, maybe he could survive without other vital things too. Vital things, like speaking and wandering freely and using magic and seeing Thor- no, that wasn't vital. That wasn't vital at all, it couldn't be.

Rattling – _keys, that noise belongs to keys_ – registered in his consciousness. Rattling followed by grinding metal of hinges. In a moment he was aware of how dulled his senses were, and panic began to flood his mind. It wasn't liberating, it was _horrifying_. 

Blunt footsteps rhythmically pounded at the stone floor, each step like the beat of a drum that mirrored the thumping of his heart as it beat faster in sickened anticipation. Each set of boots and the uniform marching gait made each guard impossible to tell apart, but any approaching guard could be the one who – who- 

He began to shake, tremors coursing through his body like an electric shock. A gust of air from the opening door brushed his face, almost mimicking a lover's touch, and he flinched away sharply. The panic kept rising, and his pulse beat loudly in his ears, almost drowning out the footsteps. His eyes opened of their own accord, taking in the dark grey of the ceiling, fixing on a crack near the corner as the guard entering the room drew closer. They traced the intricate web of the crack in the stone, trying desperately to draw away all of his mind to that one tiny section of the universe, to drown out the rest of his immediate surroundings and forget that other beings existed. 

For a second, it worked. There was nothing but the grey stone and the black crack and the shadows cast by the flickering light outside. Perhaps a spider lived in it. It was too dark to see cobwebs, but he doubted it. The environment of the dungeon was hardly conducive to arachnid life. There wouldn't be enough prey for-

A sharp slap threw his head to the side and he was dragged back into reality as the taste of blood blossomed in his mouth. Pain registered a second later, quickly followed up by a hard punch to his stomach. A spluttering cough tried to leave his mouth, but the cool metal of the gag prevented its escape. Another punch, this time to his ribs came next, knocking the breath from his lungs. His eyes burned with unshed tears at the pain. The beating continued, blunt fists connecting with tender flesh. Each burst of pain dragged him paradoxically closer to and further away from complete awareness, his mind both reeling and welcoming the sensation.

As nails dug into his sides and turned him over, full awareness returned to Loki. One leg kicked out backwards and connected successfully with metal plating, only for a sharp elbow to dig into the back of his knee. He cried out and the gag swallowed his yell as his face was pressed into the hard bed and the guard shoved his trousers down. 

It hurt just as badly as the first time. Pain tore through him and tears immediately welled up afresh in his eyes, nails digging down into the bed beneath him. He began to shake again, waves of strong shivers racking his body and the guard sank deeper inside him with a satisfied grunt. 

The intrusion was nauseating. Every thrust pushed his face into the bad, nose and throbbing cheek aching more and more. The humiliation and shame burned in his chest; he had enough control this time over his own body to move, so why couldn't he stop this? There had to be something wrong with him. He was practically _allowing_ this. It was disgusting. 

The guard finished and pulled out, and Loki shuddered. A wave of pain and nausea rushed through his body and he fought the need to vomit. The thought of vomiting while wearing the gag made him feel even more ill. Metal clanged on stone as the guard kicked at a bowl of food on the floor. His stomach turned again at the very idea of food was sickening, too. 

He stopped eating. The gag was a comfort – with it on, his mouth couldn't be violated, and he couldn't be forced to speak; not that he wanted to, but it was another small fragment of himself that he could keep. They couldn't destroy his voice, only he could. It was the same impossible resistance that his ridiculous, impertinent mind had formed when he had refused to open his eyes before. Refusing to eat was only a half-conscious decision to rebel. He couldn't tell if he wasn't eating to spite the guards, or because he was aware that it would slowly kill him. Either outcome was beneficial. 

Naturally, they noticed. The plates of food piled up and began to stink, until someone finally removed them. Loki didn't see it happen. _That_ guard – or perhaps it was another one, it really made no difference – pinched the skin at his increasingly protruding hips and made a short noise of disgust before pushing in. Food was the last thing on his mind.

They didn't remark on it, and the food quickly piled up again. He slept more and moved less. Sleep brought a respite from the hunger he didn't feel and the sensation of constant violation subsisted, and he refused to acknowledge his dreams. Movement just felt unnecessary. 

Eventually, someone higher up in the chain of command in the dungeons must have noticed something, because a new set of footsteps clicked down the hall. Metal heels made sharper strikes on the bare stone, in contrast with the guards' heavy clunking. The door opened, but Loki was too tired to close his eyes. A small, thin figure wavered in and out of his vision, flickering light illuminating a halo of blonde hair into a bright, dancing circlet of gold. Fingers too delicate to belong to a guard poked and prodded at fragile flesh, and a lilting, feminine voice called nonsensical syllables and sounds through the lukewarm air. 

More footsteps, belonging to guards this time, and the light was obscured. A new sound, drawn out and rattling, reached his ears. A low cart came lazily into view as it was pulled through the cell door. The woman's voice came again, equally unintelligible; enough for Loki to wonder if she was speaking at all, or if she was singing.

Rougher hands seized his legs and another pair pushed down on his hips and another on his shoulders and a fourth pinned his hands to the bed, and he startled violently. Harsh male voices yelled, and they pushed down harder. A tremor ran through his body. Little fingers removed the gag and gently pulled his mouth open wider, but were quickly replaced with the strong grip of masculine fingers locking his jaw open. Choked breaths rushed in and out, panic swimming in his vision as his chest rose up and down too rapidly. He tried to escape into unconsciousness as energy flooded through his veins, suddenly cursing every second his stupid, useless helplessness and his pathetic weakness, raging against himself – _why_ had he let himself get into this condition, why did he-

Something hard and unpleasant pushed into his mouth and struck the back of his throat. He gagged, but that didn't stop it. The hot, blunt object kept moving forwards, scraping painfully down the sensitive interior of his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, and whatever was being shoved inside of him _hurt_ , and it was _big_ and _thick_ and it was like before, the first time he was-

It stopped moving, and his vision came into focus for the first time. Bleary eyes tracked from a face to face, registering the blank, cold looks on each. Even the most unfamiliar face, the first female face he had seen for the duration of his imprisonment, was blank. The traditional garb of the palace healers drew his eyes. She was a healer from the palace above. Someone from _outside_ had come, and all they had brought was more pain. His eyelids drooped hopelessly. 

Something cold reached his throat, and he belatedly realised it was liquid. They were force-feeding him. Oh. The chill was surprisingly welcome, soothing the ache in his body he hadn't realised he felt until logic struck him like a hammer and turned the balm of the cold to bitter disgust. It was a symptom of his vile blue skin and monstrous condition that the cold was pleasant. The liquid settled in his stomach like stones, turning and rolling and churning. 

It felt like hours passed as more liquid slowly trickled into his unwilling body. Some small part of him burned with revolt against this brazen invasion of his body, the brutal usurpation of his own bodily functions and the deprivation of his right to die. His mouth felt like it was crawling with maggots and the heavy tube was bitter against his tongue. Saliva welled up in cold, seemingly limitless amounts and spilled out of the sides of his open mouth. Shame twisted like writhing worms in his chest at the indignity. 

Loki's eyes lost focus again, drifting to the cell door. The light from the sconce blurred and drifted, slowly flowing and melding with the yellow of the woman's hair, melting into an all-too-familiar gold that caused his traitorous heart to lift.

oO..Oo..oO..Oo


	3. Day

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

_And if you stay I will either wait all night_   
_Or until my heart explodes._   
_How long?_   
_'Til we find our way in the dark and out of harm_   
_You can run away with me any time you want_

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

The crack in the ceiling had disappeared. Its tangled web of lines and folds in the rock had melted away, leaving nothing but blank grey. The implications of its disappearance didn't enter Loki's mind at all, at least at first; only the certainty that there were definitely no spiders in his cell. He was absolutely alone.

Only later, after the fifth session with the little fingers and bitter tube and hands _everywhere_ , did he realise that it was not logically possible for the wall to have fixed itself. Either he had imagined the cracks being there and they had never really existed, or they had genuinely been there and he was now imagining their disappearance. The idea that he may be going mad casually entered and exited his mind. Madness wouldn't be a horrible prospect, now that he was unable to kill himself.

Starvation was now impossible, what with the disgusting methods of feeding him that had been introduced. Hanging was impossible without anything to use as a noose. There was no way to acquire poison or a blade. Perhaps he could entice one of the guards into attacking him and throw himself on their sword during the ensuing mêlée, but he knew he wouldn't pose enough of a threat in his physically weakened state to warrant the use of a weapon to restrain him. With his wrists bound he wouldn't even be able to throw a halfway competent punch. His complete incompetence in all things, most of all his own death, made his stomach turn at his own pathetic state.

A distant rumble caught Loki's attention. Perhaps auditory hallucinations would be another step into his inevitable descent into abject insanity. The noise was not unwelcome, though. It was strangely reminiscent of thunder, impossibly booming and echoing down the stone corridors between cells and insinuating itself within each chamber, reverberating between the walls. It was different, completely different to the clanging of cell doors and the rap of boots on stone floors and _silence_ that normally permeated the air of the dungeons.

It certainly was a hallucination because more rumbling came, becoming louder and louder every second. Higher pitched noises came and went, warping and melding with the deep booming into a strange rhythmic pulse.

Whatever it was, it was both relaxing and distracting. On the one hand, it was almost hypnotic, with waves of sound entering through the cracks in the cell door to ricochet through the cell and his eardrums. It was a sound to get lost in. On the other, it was too much like the sound of battle. If he let himself sleep to this noise, he would inevitably dream of fighting next to _one he couldn't think about because he might as well not exist at this point_ or worse, dream of New York and the humiliating defeat at the hands of a ridiculous troupe of Midgardians. Even awake it was the sound of memories from years past, of grand conquests and petty frays and simpler days. His stomach twisted at the bitter worm that insinuated itself in every one of those memories, a cruel reminder that all they proved was that he was not worthy.

The memories came unbidden: two children, running with little hands clasped around a stolen pastry or a wooden sword or another little hand while the head of the kitchens yelled after them, or their mother's – for she was certainly his mother then – laughing voice gently wafted along behind them, or the shouts of other children chased them but never quite caught up. Later, the wooden sword was replaced with a real one, and the other children grew to realise that chasing princes was not in their courtly interest, but pastries still disappeared from the palace kitchens.

Still the noise pounded along, its erratic pitch and rhythm in stark counterpoint to the beating of Loki's pulse. The steady, even thrum that denoted is continued existence felt so artificial, so _wrong_ in comparison to the organic, haphazard thundering that continued to flow through the corridors. If only his pulse could stop and this sound could take over, and he could be _lost_ -

A new sound reached his ears. It mixed and blended with the booming, then rose above it in a clear, high note. This one was distinct, and there was no mistaking it – _shouting_.

Instantly, hundreds of scenarios ran through his mind. Were other prisoners staging a revolt? Had someone else escaped? Were the guards fighting amongst themselves? Whatever it was, the sound was becoming louder, getting closer with every passing minute, or maybe second, Loki couldn't tell any more as his whole body began to sing with anticipation.

Something was happening. Something was about to bring an end to the monotony of imprisonment.

The shouting grew more pronounced, blending with the yells of battle cries and screams of pain. The booming – bodies flying against walls and stone crumbling on impact – dissolved into clashes of metal on metal and footsteps and a roar so familiar it could have come straight out of his memories.

With a deafening smash, the door to his cell was broken clean off its hinges and the last person he ever expected to see again stormed through, a glowing silhouette in the doorway.

Loki decided he was definitely already insane.

“Brother!” Thor's voice cut through the noise, a momentary lull in the clamour of fighting as he paused to survey the room. His bright, clear eyes settled on Loki's for a second, too brief to communicate more than _I'm here_. In that second, relief and humiliation and apprehension rushed like adrenaline through every fibre of Loki's body. This situation simply wasn't possible; Thor was here in his dungeon cell, where everything he hated about himself was laid out on display for all to see.

Thor turned, not missing a beat as a guard dove forward with a weapon extended. A swipe from Mjölnir threw his attacker back, colliding heavily with a wall in a clatter of armour and flesh that echoed so thunderously down the corridor and through the cell. Every line of his body was a familiar sight, and hope, furious at being quashed for so long, burst through every barrier Loki had constructed in his mind. It was familiar, so familiar and so welcome, he thought his chest may burst as emotions he hadn't felt in so long demanded to be felt and acknowledged.

Somehow, the onslaught of guards died down enough for Thor to approach him. Every step brought something new, a fresh wave of emotions he thought he would never feel again, each crushed by the unwavering similarity to what usually happened when someone approached him. The anticipation of pain was too much, and he couldn't stop himself curling in on himself a little.

“Brother,” Thor repeated, urgency and a maturity Loki barely recognised in his voice, standing barely a foot away – _close enough to touch_ \- “Father has fallen into the Odinsleep once more, and-” Fresh blasts of footsteps echoed down the hall, announcing the approach of more guards. Before Loki had the chance to react, Thor had seized him and thrown him over a broad, red-caped shoulder. Had it not been for the gag, he would have protested at the indignity and demanded to be set down at once, but the bitter metal choked back all the words. He settled instead for tugging ineffectually at a handful of red as the stone floor beneath Thor's feet turned to dark, polished wood then to glossy marble.

Still the sound of footsteps pursued them, relentlessly pounding out a brisk, metallic tempo that couldn't compete with the heavy yet thankfully swift rhythm of Thor's feet. Shouts accompanied the footsteps of the dungeon guards, doubtlessly accompanied by palace guards, calling for aid.

His hands were so _blue_ against the red of Thor's cloak.

“Thor! Loki!” another voice, so familiar his chest ached, called out. Thor slowed, then stopped altogether. Even through the armour, Loki could feel tension radiating through every muscle and bone beneath him. “Oh, what have you done, you stupid, impulsive child?”

Loki slipped to the floor as Thor's grip slackened. He nearly fell, knees giving out after having been unused for too long, and he stumbled sideways into a podium holding a vase. The vase fell to the floor and shattered, but it went completely ignored though it was undoubtedly priceless. Actually falling would be an indignity he wasn't sure he could bear. Though his shoulders slumped under the incalculable weight of _everything_ and his head remained bowed, a small sense of pride swept through him. He could still stand.

His eyes found Frigga, dressed in a nightgown with golden hair falling about her shoulders, breathing heavily with exertion as she surged forward in an almost-run. She was like a painting, artistically ruffled and blending perfectly with the décor of the palace behind her.

“Mother, I couldn't allow him to remain in the dungeons any longer!I had to-” Thor cried in a dramatic, booming voice as if half the palace didn't already know what was going on. Loki very nearly rolled his eyes.

“I understand, Thor. It was my insistence that he be kept prisoner, and not executed,” Frigga slowed, voice still choked. This close, he could see it accompanied the tears that were slowly welling in her eyes. A shard of porcelain crunched under her slipper like an autumn leaf.

“Then you understand why we have to go, why I have to take Loki and-” he paused for a second, before continuing in a softer voice. “-and leave. Exile us both if you must, but please let us go.” One huge, strong arm reached out, shielding Loki's slender frame in a gesture more symbolic than practical. Frigga continued forward regardless, stepping lightly around Thor's arm with a light touch to it with a soft hand, until she stood in front of Loki.

She said nothing as she reached into the folds of her nightgown to pull out a key, which she pressed into his hands. Steady fingers then reached behind his head, though she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach, to undo the clasp on the gag. Warm hands ghosted across his skin in a touch that was maternal and everything he loved about her. It fell to the floor between them where it lay forgotten.

“I am – allowing you to escape,” her voice broke, but only for a second. She rose up again and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. Intense power and strength poured out from behind eyes swimming with tears, and Loki was suddenly reminded exactly why she was queen of Asgard. “Now _go!_ ”

With a sweep of her hand a beam from the ceiling and a section of wall collapsed, blocking off the corridor they had just run through. Dust glittered like gold in the early morning light, and it suddenly hit Loki that this was the first time in months, maybe _years_ , that he had seen sunlight. It was too much and too soon, and he had to close his eyes.

“Mother, I-” Thor began, only to change his mind half way through, seize Loki's hand and run.

oO..Oo..oO..Oo


	4. Introduction

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

_Everyone in this town_

_Is seeing somebody else_

_Everybody's tired of someone_

_Our eyes wander for help_

_Prayers that need no answer now_

_'Cause I'm tired of who I am_

_You were my greatest mistake_

_I fell in love with your sin_

_Your littlest sin_

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

  
  


It was very difficult to focus on anything except running. Countless hours of inactivity had not been kind to his muscles, and each step felt like shards of glass grinding against the cartilage of disused joints. Though it hurt, it was exhilarating. It was exhilarating to be _moving_ , and to be moving _outside_ was something Loki had been so certain he would never do again. The scenery before him changed as he and Thor pelted out of the palace, somehow managing to outrun palace guards, no doubt with a little help from Thor's mildly terrifying look of utter determination.

The further they ran, the more his fear increased. They were really doing this, really escaping, but to what? To some backwater land inhabited by neither man nor beast? It would be the only option to hide him, since too many people throughout the Nine Realms knew his face and news of his escape would certainly spread like wildfire.

It was better than the alternative.

“Loki,” Thor breathed, letting go of Loki's wrist as he hauled them to a stop. “I need you to send us to Midgard,”

“I- I can't-” Loki began before stopping himself mid-sentence. His voice was wrong. It was too full of everything he was feeling, filled with brokenness and self-loathing and loss of control. There was none of the tight control that should have been there, and he could only be bitterly thankful for Thor's endless denseness.

“Yes, you can! I know you can!” insisted Thor in his usual bullish way, simultaneously proclaiming certainty while begging for Loki to contradict him. Their eyes met for a second, and the trust in Thor's eyes made Loki's stomach clench.

“I physically can't unless you remove these bindings, you fool!” he snarled, tearing his eyes away. Trusting something so pathetically weak would only lead to pain. “You really didn't think this through at all, did you? What if I was unable to move inconspicuously between Realms, or if my ability to use magic had been destroyed, or if Mother hadn't given me the key? What if the palace guards had been just a little more competent? Then what? You would merely be chastised for reckless behaviour and I would b-be thrown back-”

“No, Brother, I would never let that happen! I won't be parted from you again!” Thor replied vehemently.

“You survived before, and you will again,” Loki said, eyes fixed on the floor. He held up the key Frigga had given him like an offering. “Now, if you want us to escape, you will unlock the bindings!”

The key looked deceptively diminutive in Thor's hands. Loki held out his wrists, furiously trying to stop them from shaking as one large hand closed around a thin blue wrist. He couldn't stop a shudder running up his spine as unwanted memories of hands grabbing and tightening flooded his mind. Over and over in his head he reminded himself that it was innocent, that nothing untoward was going to happen, and that it was Thor who was attached to these hands, and that these hands were actually useful.

The key slid into the lock and with a small twist, clicked softly. The process was repeated for the second cuff, and the metal fell forgotten between them. Blue receded first from his fingertips, ivory flooding up willowy digits like spilled ink to stain his hands, then the rest of his body. A small smile of triumph crossed Thor's face before Loki drew on the magic within himself – _and almost cried with happiness to find it still there_ – to unpick the weave of space-time and energy and slip them between the fabrics of the Realms, and it felt impossibly natural and comfortable.

They appeared in what seemed to be a nicely decorated home cinema room. A large television was mounted on the far wall with comfortable-looking couches and armchairs arranged in a horseshoe around it. A coffee table covered in spilled popcorn had been pushed forward in a very recent hurry, if the scuff marks on the floor were anything to go by.

“Thor and Loki have arrived, Sir,” the incorporeal voice of JARVIS commented. “Should I prepare a guest room, or perhaps-”

“Don't bother, JARVIS,” Tony Stark stood facing them squarely with his arms folded across his chest. It would have been more imposing if it weren't for the very bright, very loud children's film playing on the giant television behind him. “You're not keeping him.”

“He is my brother, not some kind of house-cat!” Thor protested. He took one step forward, moving to shield Loki with his body. A small spark of indignation rose up from the shattered remains of Loki's pride. With his magic unbound he was more than capable of defending himself.

“I don't care if he sprouts cat ears and a fluffy tail, I don't want him living in my tower,” Stark retorted.

“ _Our_ tower, Tony, _our_ tower,” tall and blond and wrapped in a shirt so patriotic it was nearly painful, Steve Rogers walked forward until he stood next to Stark. “I thought we agreed that this building would be dedicated to the team,”

“I still own the property rights, Captain Spandex, and I-”

“Would you rather we keep Loki here, were we can monitor him twenty four-seven, or would you rather we put him somewhere near civilians? Judging by the damage caused during the Chitauri invasion and footage of abilities that I _know_ you've studied that would be a monumentally high-risk idea,” the woman, Natasha Romanov, stated matter-of-factly. She raised her arm, slim television remote in hand eerily like a gun as she turned off the sound.

“We could stick him in the new Hulk containment chamber,” suggested another voice, belonging to a head that emerged from behind the woman's body as it reached for a stray piece of popcorn. Loki recognised the face. Clint Barton, the one he had controlled.

“It's made to the almost the same specs as the last one, and he's proven he can escape that,” she slid from the couch and rose to her feet in a fluid motion, the remote still in hand, closing a little of the distance between herself and the gods. Everything about her indicated she was ready to fight. “Our best option is to keep him close. And if he tries something, well,” a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as her eyes flickered to Loki for a second. “We all know know the last fight went,”

“Friends, I assure you, Loki will do no such thing! He has seen the errors of his ways, and-”

“Please refrain from speaking about me as if I am not present,” Loki snapped, glaring at Thor for his outburst for a second before returning is gaze to the wall slightly behind the gathered midgardians. “I assure you, I will not cause any harm to any of you or the people you protect. I would stand to gain nothing from random acts of violence,”

He was painfully aware of every pair of eyes in the room focusing sharply on him. Romanov's chillingly assessing stare, Stark's calculating coolness, Rogers' calm self-assurance and Barton's irritatingly distracting munching. He immediately regretted speaking. He was sure every pair of eyes saw too much, and that they would _know_ that he wasn't really much of a threat at all because he was so useless, even with his magic back, and that they would somehow see what had happened in the dungeons in his eyes or his body or the way he spoke. Showing any kind of weakness to these people was an invitation for trouble.

The moment of silence grew longer than any moment had a right to be, and every second it became more and more difficult not to shake. Whether it was the stress of physical exertion or the force of so many sets of unfriendly eyes, he couldn't tell. He wanted nothing more in that second than for it to end, but felt just as powerless to break the silence as if he were still gagged.

“It's going to take more than words to convince us. Actions speak louder than words, and someone's going to be watching your every move indefinitely,” Rogers' voice rang with leadership. “Tony, can you set up JARVIS to-”

“Already done, Cap,” Stark replied, clapping Rogers on the shoulder. A look passed between them, and Stark wandered back to the collection of couches, proudly displaying his back to Loki in a gesture of casual triumph as if any of the people in the room needed any more reassurance that Loki was an absolutely neutralised threat.

“Thank you. Until we figure out something more permanent he'll live on your floor, Thor. I hope you don't mind the invasion of your privacy,” Rogers continued. Thor was practically vibrating with energy.

“The sacrifice of my privacy is nothing, my friend! I am overjoyed that my brother has been returned to me, and that you are so generous in allowing us both to stay,” Thor replied, his voice overflowing with easy gratitude. He stepped back to casually rest a hand between Loki's shoulderblades, smile barely dulling when Loki jerked away instinctively.

“It's not generosity, it's a precaution. It's not like he's in any condition to do any of us any damage right now, what with how half-dead he looks,” Barton piped up through a mouthful of popcorn from his perch on the couch. “Did you get on the wrong side of your special friends in god-prison? Or-”

Loki paled at the implication. Was it really so obvious? Was there some kind of outward mark or stain or something that proudly proclaimed to the world that he was little better than a cheap prostitute? He could no longer repress the shiver that ran from the base of his skull down his back as he stepped back, then jumped forward again in shock as he collided with something solid.

“Thor, I-” Loki began, turning his head to look at Thor so he didn't have to see the humans staring at him like he was some kind of circus freak, only made worse by the fact that he _was_ a freak, and-

“I fear both my brother and I are weary from battle, so we shall retire a little early. I bid you all good night!” Thor announced too loudly, and began to usher the quaking figure beside him towards the door.

“But it's half three in the afternoon-”

“Just let them go, Clint. It's not worth it.”

Loki could have cried with relief.

**oO..Oo..oO..Oo**


	5. Breathing

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

_Someone help me_

_‘Cause the memory_

_Convinced itself to tear me apart_

_And it’s gonna succeed before long_

_This is endless_

oO..Oo..oO..Oo

“-and I have garments enough for both of us, though I fear mine may be a little oversized on you,” Thor paused momentarily in his ramblings, joyous or slightly nervous Loki couldn’t tell, to briefly sweep his eyes over Loki’s diminished form. He began talking again too fast to notice the shudder than ran through the small figure lagging behind him. “No matter, I shall demonstrate to you the wonders of Midgardian magic encased within a tiny square of plastic at their great indoor markets and purchase you anything you require. It is incredible how varied their markets are! They even have glorious coffee shops spaced at convenient intervals, though none are quite as fantastic as the one-“

Loki tuned it out. If he had had more energy, maybe he would have shut Thor up with a sharp yet extremely witty come-back. For now, it was enough to let him please himself with meaningless words. The more distracted Thor was, the better. Then he might fail to notice that anything was wrong. With any luck, he had taken one too many blows to the skull in battles on Midgard, killing the few remaining brain cells he had left. When it was just the two of them, it was so much harder to hide.

Thor’s chambers, it transpired, took up an entire floor. It was completely different to what the palace private chambers looked like. The walls were bare and painted a warm cream, except where the paint was covered by photographs and postcards taped over it. A girl with long, brown hair and pretty features smiled back out of a few of them, and Loki carefully ignored the pang of bitterness that ran through him. The carpets underfoot were soft and welcoming under his bare feet. Whereas the palace had huge, ornately carved wooden wardrobes, armoires and chests of drawers, a full-length mirrored door was casually pushed aside to reveal a walk-in closet, and another undecorated door was pushed ajar and presumably lead into the bathroom. One huge, unmade bed stood pushed into the corner of the room, leaving a glaringly obvious empty space where it had once clearly been. Interior decoration had never really been a main focus of princely education.

Loki tried to ignore the way his knees almost went weak at the prospect of a _real bed_ , then promptly snapped painfully into each other at the stupid assumption they would share it. The woman in the photos. Thor’s Midgardian woman, she was probably the last person in that bed.

“…ki? Loki?” A hand on his shoulder nearly scared him half to death until he realised it was just Thor, who would probably never hurt him more than absolutely necessary, but was too lovingly dim to understand that Loki didn’t want to be touched.

“What is it, Thor?” Loki replied a little too sharply, still reeling from the touch. He winced at the unintentional ice in his voice, cursing himself silently for losing control of his tone, and stared at a patch of carpet near his feet.

“It is nothing, Brother. I merely wondered if you wanted to bathe before resting,” Thor’s eyes burned a path over Loki’s face, warm with concern and a trace of guilty happiness, but Loki couldn’t meet his eyes. They might betray too much. “When you didn’t respond, I-“

“That would be…delightful,” Loki said. His eyes shifted to Thor’s knees before straying upwards. Their eyes locked.

An awkward pause stretched on for longer than it had any right to. Thor cleared his throat once, then again, and began backing away towards the closet. He looked so out of place in this room. It was so casual, and his cape and armour were – not. They belonged in a palace, along with the brilliant gold of his hair and noble set of his features.

“Very well. There are towels in the bathroom, and you can wear my clothing until-“ his words trailed off as he entered the closet, rummaging around for a minute and plucking out what were doubtlessly the first things he could find. Almost any other resident of the tower had clothes that would fit Loki better, but it was a matter of pride, somehow; _he_ would dress his brother until he could dress himself.

That moment alone seemed to have bolstered his confidence, and he walked towards Loki with an absent-minded smile. Every step closed the distance between them, and Loki was tempted to run for a second, but he quashed that desire sharply. It was foolish to think he had any hope of escape at this point. He had run straight from one prison into another.

“Thank you,” he wasn’t sure he even said it aloud. Maybe his lips just mouthed the words.

Loki practically threw himself through the bathroom door to escape from any casual touches and any reactions to his behaviour. The very idea of showering reminded him how dirty he was, and a pathological desire to scrub worked its way to the front of his mind even though he knew it would be a futile endeavour. The grime and dirt was twice as thick and immoveable as that on the surface.

The bright ceiling lights practically blinded him after the hazily lit bedroom, reflecting off the huge, bold mirrors and the shiny wall tiles, shiny sink and shiny towel rack. The shower was generously large, presumably to compensate for the lack of bath, and definitely big enough for two people. Only about a third of the glass that made up two of the walls was frosted, and the floor tiles were identical in and out of the shower, giving the impression that the shower wasn’t really there at all.

Loki snagged the first towel off the rack and dumped it on the floor in a heap with the clothes. His own were practically falling apart at the seams, and he made no effort to preserve them as he stripped himself while carefully not looking at his own body. When he glanced up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. A too-thin face with limp, long hair stared back. He looked away quickly before he saw too much, and got into the shower.

He shivered under the warmth. Hot water sluiced over his body – too hot, but the burning pain was good because it could burn off the fingerprints and the bruises and the maybe the blue hidden underneath, too. The minor miracle of the creamy glamour-skin grew pink as the water beat down on it, as harsh as any fist but equally as comforting in some strange, indecipherable way. It was a pain he knew, but better. Before, other people were in control, but now he could turn the dial on the shower. Now he could control how much it hurt, and where, and when.

Shaking fingers turned the heat up another notch.

Maybe the heat would melt the ice. Maybe some fantastical superior force would take pity upon a god and change his very biological makeup, and wash away the hideous truth of his genetics. Maybe the very fabric of the universe would re-write itself based upon his utterly ridiculous fantasies.

For a moment, the water felt like hands. In that second it happened again. The pain, the violation, the tearing and the blood all resurfaced at once. It was just a memory but it felt so real, as if it was happening all over again. Who was to say it couldn’t happen again? His own hands traced out the paths the disgusting, horrible hands had followed, raking over them with nails. Maybe the memory could be scratched out, and this feeling was his own. _They_ didn’t control it. _He_ chose when he hurt.

Aching fingers found the shampoo and began lathering slippery, Thor-scented soap through overly long hair begging for a wash. In another mindset, it could have been therapeutic. He washed the accumulated dirt away, absently observing milky trails of bubbles pass down his chest as the burning water rinsed it all away. Slightly beige water collected around his feet before spinning away down the drain, but still the evidence remained _in_ his skin and hair. Fingers scrubbed harder, and the bubbles became tinged with pink for a moment as his scalp burned, and then burned again with the memory of fingers wrapping around hair and tugging and forcing his head back and forth, tensing as his mouth was filled with-

He turned abruptly and let the powerful jet of water stream directly into his face. Nothing could clean it away.  Fingers still covered in soap rose swiftly to first cover his mouth, then probe into it, nails digging into the soft insides of cheeks as they crawled on their quest to find something, anything that could be removed as evidence that _it_ had happened. Because they knew. They had to know.

The soap made him wretch, but there was nothing to vomit up. He just fell to his knees as near-boiling water rained down on his back and neck. It could have been minutes or hours he knelt there. Only the thought that Thor was in the adjacent rooms made him rise, turn off the shower, and step out.

The air outside the shower was mercifully fogged with steam, so much so he could barely see his own body when he glanced down. The fluffy towel lay like a clump of forgotten snow on the floor. He picked it up and rubbed it over his body, pressing too hard as the towel came into contact with bruises and scratches. When he pulled it away, red patches had blossomed across the towel like morbid scattered rose petals. His lips twisted into a small, ironic smirk. If only the truth were half so beautiful or stupidly poetic. 

Thankfully, the dark jogging trousers Thor had plied him with had a drawstring, or they would have slipped off Loki’s frame the second he tried to move. They were too long in the leg, half-covering the ridiculously floppy little slippers that encased his feet, but they were better than the faded t-shirt that smelled like industrial strength laundry detergent and Thor. He tried not to inhale as he pulled the shirt over his head, but his lungs betrayed him and the overwhelming scent of his not-brother flooded into him, nearly sending him to his knees again. It was too soon and too late all at once, and it nearly physically hurt to feel so close to something he thought he had lost forever and yet be just far away enough that he couldn’t reach out and touch it.

The clothes covered the worst of his injuries. Thor would never have to see them.


	6. Want

oO.Oo.oO.Oo

_You can’t have my heart and_

_You won’t use my mind but_

_Do what you want with my body_

_Do what you want with my body_

oO.Oo.oO.Oo

Thor’s bed was the most glorious creation in the nine realms. Nothing could compare to its softness, comfort or beauty. Its rumpled sheets held a kind of regally rugged charm. Its mattress was perfectly soft and springy, lighter than a bed of clouds. The pillows were like sinking into ocean foam. It smelled like soap and outdoors and Thor and home, and Loki was too tired to resist it.

It was nice, being able to relax. Thor was nowhere to be seen – or heard, given his considerable size and lack of general grace. Everyone else in the tower was locked out, doubly-barred by the presence of Thor, who wouldn’t let anything short of an army of gods take Loki away from him, creating a bubble of protection.

Of course, that bubble stopped just short of Loki’s mind. Nothing could stop what had already demolished the boundaries long before they were established.

In Thor’s bed, Loki felt like he weighed more than the tower itself. He sunk into the mattress and pillows and the heavy duvet covered him like grave dirt. Still, it was comforting. The simple cotton didn’t feel like hands and the creases and folds didn’t feel like fingers. Though it smelled strongly of Thor and probably was due a wash, it was almost perfect. It shouldn’t be too hard to sleep in something so – _innocent_.

As Loki slipped into unconsciousness, the thump of heavy footsteps pounding like a heartbeat washed through the room and into his mind. No sound had ever been more welcome.

 

oO.Oo.oO.Oo

 

Thor would have made at least a small effort not to track mud on the carpets in normal circumstances. It felt strange not to wear shoes indoors, even though almost every other resident of the Tower seemed to prefer socks alone. What if they were called to action without a moment’s notice? Jane’s voice would have rung out through his head, reminding him to _think about the trouble someone else would have to go through to clean that mess up_ , before a warmly maternal smile or huff formed on her lips. But today, he had an excuse. Excitement rushed through his chest as he pushed open the door to the bedroom.

Dimmed lights shrouded the bed in darkness, but nothing was quite as dark as the ebony hair spilled across the pillows like spilled ink. Had it not been for the tiny, almost inaudible puffs of breath, it would have been impossible to know that the figure almost entirely concealed by the thick white bedding. Loki remained totally still in sleep. The darkness of the room concealed the purplish-grey hollows beneath his eyes, cloaking them with eyelashes that really had no place on a male face-

But regardless, imprisonment and the sudden, energetic escape had obviously drained Loki, so Thor would exercise his rather under-used tact and let him sleep. It was still far too early to consider sleeping himself, and the excitement of having his brother returned to him combined with the remnants of adrenaline from a truly marvellous escape wouldn’t have allowed it anyway.

Stealth had never exactly been his area of expertise. Loud battle cries and dramatic entrances were definitely more his style, but if he was going to let Loki sleep, stomping through the bedroom would hardly accomplish anything other than causing a disturbance. Slowly and gently, Thor stepped forward. The noise of his shoe was thankfully muffled by the carpet. Another step, and no sound but the rasp of denim rubbing over denim. The bathroom, light spilling out from the crack in the door, had never seemed so far away.

Loki twitched briefly, but slept on.

The bright light of the bathroom was almost blinding. The air was still heavy with moisture, sticking to the mirrors and walls and running down in glistening beads. Loki’s old clothes lay in a slightly soggy pile on the floor, starkly contrasted by the almost luminous white of the bath towel discarded next to it. No matter, both could be washed. The wonders of Midgardian laundry detergent could save it all.

Loki’s shirt was rough to the touch, torn in multiple places and oddly crusty in others. Dark spots dotted the front, and the neckline was badly torn. It seemed a little beyond repair, but Thor would formally request that it be laundered and returned just in case Loki required it. The same would go for the trousers, which seemed to be in a similar state, though the dark spots seemed to be rather-

Thor seized the towel from the floor, dropping the dirty – _bloody_ – rags as if they had stung him. Red splotches, some the size of a pinprick, others expanded painfully large, covered the white cotton. How had he not noticed before? A flash of rage, redder than any of the bloodstains, burst through his chest at the implications – _beatings, torture, why didn’t he know-?_

The towel collided with the wall and sank to the floor in a heap.

Before he had a chance to storm out of the bathroom and demand a truthful explanation from Loki, or maybe demand that he rip open a gateway back to Asgard to confront whoever was responsible, consequences be damned, a choked whimper came from the other room. Thor froze. It was a sound from another century-

- _watching fingers gingerly picking shards of glass out of his arm (his right arm; his dominant arm. An injury like that would put him out of combat training for a week, but it was almost hypnotising how dexterous his left hand was) after falling through a window._

_Not falling, but pushed. Loki wasn’t like other boys and they knew it._

_Thor knew who had done it but Loki insisted that there be no fighting; he could deal with it in his own way, and that way mostly ended with books transformed into rats and further retribution. Maybe it would be pulling pins out of his leg next time. Neither Mother nor Father needed to know._

_Thor pretended not to hear the whimpers as he turned away to fetch a clean bowl of water._

A snake of guilt pushed its way through Thor’s guts and he didn’t pause again as he stormed back into the bedroom, neither willing nor able to be silent any more. The automated lighting seemed to understand in whatever strange, ultra-capable way that Stark’s Midgardian magic always did, and flashed on. The harsh lights bleached Loki’s skin as he writhed beneath the duvet. His eyes flickered beneath half-closed lids, shimmering blue then red then blue again. Protestations against something formed on his lips before they faded as quickly as they were formed, interrupted by yelps and whimpers far too animalistic to come from lips so refined. A particularly vicious thrash threw the duvet to the side, revealing a slender hip where the loaned trousers had slipped down. Bruises as purple as grapes, bisected with red half-moon nail marks, peppered ivory skin.

“Loki!” Every second was frozen forever into Thor’s memory as he rushed around to the side of the bed. He yelled loud enough to wake people in buildings adjacent to the Tower, but to no effect. “Loki! Brother! Wake up!”

One hand – thin, too thin, one finger strangely crooked like it had been broken and not set again properly – suddenly extended towards Thor in a lightning-fast strike, but not fast enough. His own fingers closed around the bony, delicate wrist in a grip tight enough to hold but not to allow escape. A stifled scream stuttered through Loki’s lips and his eyes opened wide and sat up, consciousness only half-behind them. He blinked twice, and then slammed his lips against Thor’s.

 

oO.Oo.oO.Oo

 

_They were back, ripping and tearing and pushing and pulling and then thrusting, and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt. Jeering rang through his ears, but never loud enough to conceal his own sharp breath at the first penetration. Hands, more hands than any vaguely humanoid creature had any right to have, held him down and a second object – maybe the hilt of a sword, or the shaft of a halberd – entered him. It didn’t matter where, it was the intrusion that mattered, something unwanted in a place too private, and the laughter and comments that stung as harshly as any whip. A hand around his wrist-_

Thor’s face, a picture of concern. Hot fingers enclosed around his wrist. So that’s what this was.

Betrayal didn’t come as swiftly as Loki thought it should. It came long after the survival instinct demanded that he give in immediately, as it had dictated all those nights (months? Years?) ago inside his prison cell. It was easier to give his assailant, now wearing Thor’s face, exactly what he wanted without fighting. Fighting only lead to worse things happening, as his stupid brain had ensured he remembered. So it was better to give Thor what he wanted than fight.

Loki smashed his mouth into Thor’s so hard he felt his own lip break against his teeth. It wasn’t what they had usually wanted – no one wanted to have anything to do with that mouth that gushed with lies like a putrid geyser, unless they wanted to shove their cocks into it and fill it with filth instead – but Thor was a romantic at heart. He knew this man. This was man, a god, with pictures of only one pretty woman on his wall. This man had a heart. He’d probably want a kiss, unless that was reserved for the brunette and this would earn Loki a strike to the jaw.

Thor’s lips were warm and chapped and soft in places, but unmoving. Shame overwhelmed any sense of satisfaction he had momentarily gained in understanding another being. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ Loki. He deserved to be slapped now, but he didn’t move his lips away. The warmth was nice, and it was almost exactly like what he’d thought these lips would be like, all those years ago in another lifetime entirely, before he had been a fool and become-

Become what? A new flavour of shame stabbed through his heart. Become a whore, like they had said he was. He was whoring himself out to Thor to avoid more pain, which make him not only stupid but a slut, just like they told him. A slut to be fucked.

His free hand, the one not held in a vice made of flesh and bone and blood, reached down towards Thor’s member. Thor hadn’t rejected the kiss or struck him, so he must want more. It was more than he had ever offered them, but they weren’t Thor. They hadn’t been kind. They didn’t deserve it.

Before Loki’s had could reach its destination, Thor stepped back and released his wrist. Red lingered on Thor’s lips in a strange imitation of lipstick.

“Don’t you want me?” Loki broke the silence, his voice soft and pleading. Maybe that would work. Words had worked on Thor before, so maybe they could work this time if he said the right thing.

“No, I-” he didn’t hear the rest, only the refusal. Shame almost overwhelmed him, shot through with disappointment at his failure. He couldn’t even be a good whore. So really, what was the point? He fell back onto the bed, wincing as the bruises ached. Thor’s mouth was still moving. It was too much to look at, so he fixed his eyes on the ceiling instead. Neutral, white, boring and safe.

Thor didn’t reach out to touch him, and with good reason. Loki had proved himself to be thoroughly vile and repulsive, so even Thor wouldn’t touch him again. Thor, with the heart of gold and all the self-restraint of a volcano. Thor-

A warm hand came to rest on his forehead. He flinched automatically, then leaned into its warmth.

“Loki?” Thor’s voice broke through his consciousness and finally registered in his mind. The single word wrapped stickily around the fragments of his mind, sweet like honey. “I will not leave you. Do you understand?”

It was too great of an effort to nod, and a smile was impossible. Instead, his eyelids drifted shut and let the warmth of Thor’s hand soothe his mind. It was enough for now, at least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break - some personal issues in my life basically made my motivation to write something like this less than zero. But I'm back now. Updates will happen again.


	7. Chapter 7

Okay, this is not a chapter but an explanation as to why there won't be any more for a long time. Not saying I'm abandoning this. I want to write it, I really do, but due to events in my recent past I cannot contemplate a lot of things in this fic without being reduced to a quivering wreck. So please understand that I am not actually able to write more yet. When I can, I will, but as of now it still just isn't possible. Thanks for understanding.


End file.
